


Retrouvailles

by WritingQuill



Series: Meanings [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Gen, John-centric, M/M, POV Third Person, Post Reichenbach, Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-09
Updated: 2013-02-09
Packaged: 2017-11-28 18:42:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,141
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/677621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WritingQuill/pseuds/WritingQuill
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Retrouvailles (French): happiness of meeting again after a long time</p><p>Sherlock's return is more than a bit shocking for John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Retrouvailles

**Retrouvailles** (French): _happiness of meeting again after a long time_

 _”Some subtle memory of you shall be_  
 _A resurrection of the life of me.”_  
\- ‘When I am dead’, John G. Neihardt

***

It had been a particularly awful day. Rain had been pouring down since early morning, and the tube had been packed. John Watson had limped his way through the crowd, always avoiding the pitied eyes staring at his cane. He had walked to his work, put up with the endless parade of pointless illnesses, screaming children and old people. He had eaten lunch by himself at the break room, avoiding his work colleagues. He had treated his patients and signed off, and then walked home with his head bowed down. But today he hadn’t felt like going home after work. He couldn’t face those walls and furniture, couldn’t climb those seventeen steps, and not break down. It had been an awful day. 

So there he stood, rain soaking through his clothes, making his hair stick to his forehead, allowing mud into his shoes. But none of that mattered because his eyes were trained in the golden words carved in black marble. 

SHERLOCK HOLMES, it said. Three years later, and John still hadn’t got over it. How could he ever? His best friend, the best man he ever knew, was lying under his feet, dead, and John was expected to move on? How did one ever move on after Sherlock Holmes? John sighed and patted the tombstone lightly as he did every time he came to visit. He never brought flowers or anything like that, it would be ridiculous. Sherlock would roll his eyes and scoff. But other people did, especially after his name had been cleared — and John thanked Lestrade for his work on that, not Mycroft, he still couldn’t bear to speak to Mycroft. All kinds of flowers appeared. Roses, lilies, chrysanthemums, carnations, gardenias, among others. They made John angry, but it was better to feel angry than the alternative — nothing. It was all very numb these days, and he sighed before turning around and walking away from his friend. 

* 

The rain had stopped, but it was still cold as John shivered and limped out of the tube and across the street to 221. Mrs Hudson had gone away on holiday with her sister, so he was alone for the evening, which was all the better because all he wanted was a quiet, peaceful evening. Maybe a cuppa and some crap telly to help the day dissipate into oblivion. No alcohol. John made a point of not drinking alcohol if he felt sad or angry. It wouldn’t do to turn into Harry. 

Mrs Hudson’s flat was dark, and so was the foyer, so John switched on the light and began to slowly make his way up the stairs. Awful days made it harder. 

He finally reached the top of the stairs with an exhausted sigh. Another lonely night at his lonely flat awaited him. He thought about turning back and going to a pub, but that would be counter-productive. No use getting drunk, it wouldn’t solve anything, and he’d end up with a hangover and the pain would still be there. John unlocked the door and went straight to his bedroom to change into dry clothes. 

In his bedroom, John removed his sodden jumper and trousers, throwing them in a hamper. Then he took off his undershirt, and caught sight of his scar on the mirror. The horrible evidence of his past. He could still remember the pain he felt as the blood poured out of him, and the numbness that came right before he passed out. Those were painful memories that kept him up some nights. Before The Fall, that is. Now his nightmares were peppered with Sherlock’s voice, his note, his coat flapping through the air, the gentle thud of a body hitting the pavement. In his dreams, John saw Sherlock’s pained face at the top of the hospital, he felt on his fingertips the silky skin of Sherlock’s wrist as he felt for a pulse. It all clouded his visions, and John felt as if he hadn’t even slept properly since that first night. 

He closed his eyes and put on a dry t-shirt, then pyjama bottoms and slippers. Leaving his bedroom, he walked down the stairs and into the kitchen to make a cuppa and maybe a sandwich, even though he wasn’t hungry. He was never anything these days, anyway. 

The lounge was still dark, since John hadn’t bothered with the lights yet, so he slowly moved to switch on the main lights when a dark figure of the window startled him. 

‘Who’s there?’ he asked, removing his hand from the switch and to the counter to grab a knife. The figure had its bark turned to John, but he could tell it was tall. He sighed deeply, shivers running down his spine. His hand was steady. 

‘Hello, John,’ the ghost said. Because it had to be a ghost. That voice, the velvety, deep voice had jumped off St Bart’s three years ago along with the body of Sherlock Holmes. That voice was buried deep and rotting. That voice was not supposed to be standing by the window, looking out into the street. John gasped. 

‘What?’ he asked. When you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, however improbably, must be true, Sherlock had said once upon a time. But this couldn’t be. He was dead. He was supposed to be dead. Why wasn’t he dead?

‘I’m back,’ Sherlock said, turning to face John for the first time. He was wearing one of his own suits, probably from the boxes John still kept in his room. But the hair was different, shorter and shaggier, but not in the elegant, public-school way it used to be. 

‘You’re ba— You were dead,’ John whispered. He found he couldn’t raise his voice, afraid that this was all a hallucination and that Sherlock would leave again. ‘We buried you. I mourned you,’ he choked out, already feeling the back of his eyes sting. 

‘John, I—‘ 

‘No! You… You were…’ John dropped the knife and his knee buckled. He leant against the doorframe to steady himself. John was furious. But he was also happy, incredulous, relieved and he felt alive for first time in years. It was an overwhelming feeling that had him gasping for air. Too many emotions, too much. He felt a tentative, warm hand on his shoulder and shivered. It was _Sherlock_ touching him. He wasn’t dead anymore. Had never been, for the look of it. It was a miracle, _the_ miracle he had asked for all those years ago. _One more miracle_ , he had said, _one more miracle for me_.

John looked up to see those all-seeing eyes watching him in concern. There were dark shadows under them and creases on his brow. Stress line where none had been before. Sherlock looked the same, but so different. Broken, somehow, and suddenly John hated him. Because he had _lived_ for three years, lived enough to have gained these lines, saw things, probably despicable things, and never once did he contact John, tell him he was alive. Never, not once. And John had cried, mourned, grieved, all for nothing. And he had almost… almost… 

‘You bastard,’ he said. Sherlock’s eyes widened a split second before John’s fist hit his face, and then he was on the floor with a groan. ‘You absolute utter bastard. All this time, all those years, you could have said something, anything…’ 

Sherlock was breathing deeply, sitting on the floor with a hand on his cheek. He looked up, seeming pained. ‘I couldn’t. I wanted to, believe me, but I couldn’t.’ 

‘What was stopping you?’ John asked, probably more loudly than he had intended, since Sherlock flinched away. John sighed and sat on a chair by the kitchen table, facing Sherlock, who was still on the floor. 

‘Moriarty.’ 

‘He’s dead.’ 

‘Yes, but his minions were still at large, and you were the target. You, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, if I didn’t kill myself.’ 

Then he went on to explain how he had formulated a plan with Molly Hooper and Mycroft in order to fake his own death, and then how he went out on the hunt for the remaining parts of Moriarty’s web. Sherlock told him about his exploits in Russia, Minsk, Hong Kong, most of the European continent and a few African countries. He explained how he had to do everything silently as not to raise suspicion of his survival, how he did it all to protect John. He spoke for over an hour, and John was tired. 

After Sherlock was done, John couldn’t say anything. He needed to process all that information, so he sent Sherlock to bed, the man looked like death itself — and that thought would probably make him giggle in a few days, hopefully. John himself stood on the dark lounge after Sherlock went into his bedroom, looking small and defeated. He never knew Sherlock could look so vulnerable. It hurt him to see that. 

Sherlock Holmes was a marvel. Not even Sherlock Holmes could kill Sherlock Holmes. He was a genius, the most incredible human being John had ever met. He was a great man, and a good one, too. And he was so _human_. John had missed him so much. Those curls, those icy-blue-but-sometimes-grey-then-green eyes, that deep baritone. He had missed those genuine smiled Sherlock saved for him, and those tiny little moments that probably meant nothing in the grand scheme of things, but were all John clung to when he remembered his friend. Sitting for breakfast and chatting about murders, discussing experiments and what human body parts were not allowed in the fridge — “I’m fine with heads, hands, feet, and internal organs, Sherlock, but please refrain from keeping penises in the fridge!” was a memorable one that brought a surprising smile into John’s lips as he sat on the sofa. He breathed in deeply and realised that the room smelt of Sherlock again. Of faint cologne, formaldehyde and something herb-y. God, how he had missed that smell. It was… home. Then John realised that for all that he was angry at Sherlock, he was home again. For the longest time, he had felt detached from the world, and that was because he _was_. He didn’t belong anywhere anymore, and now he did. 

With a last inhale, John fell asleep. 

* 

When John woke up, he found himself covered in a quilt. The memories from the night before came rushing back and he stood up with a start. There was some clatter noise coming from the kitchen, so there he went. 

‘Good morning,’ he said hesitantly. Sherlock ( _Sherlock!_ ) was standing by the kettle, waiting for it to boil probably, and he jumped at John’s voice. He turned around and gave a small smile. 

‘Hi,’ was all he said. John sighed. Sherlock’s neck was swollen. 

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said. Sherlock’s eyes widened. 

‘About what?’ 

‘Punching you. It was uncalled for.’ 

‘It’s fine,’ Sherlock said, another small smile tugging at the corner of his lips, as if he were stopping himself from smiling. And then John realised that for all that happened, Sherlock must have missed home as much as John missed Sherlock, and that he was happy to be back. Happy, there’s a word John hadn’t used in a while. 

Sherlock turned back to make tea for himself, and he made another cup for John. It tasted foul. 

‘Wow, you really can’t make tea, I thought you were just lazy.’ 

Sherlock shrugged and stood in the middle of the kitchen awkwardly, sipping his tea quietly. With another sigh, John put the tea back on the table. 

‘I really am happy you are back, Sherlock,’ John said. ‘I am, it’s just… Getting used to you being alive again after I’ve just got used to you being dead.’ 

Sherlock nodded. ‘I… understand. I can leave, stay with Mycroft until—‘ 

‘No,’ John put a hand up. ‘Don’t you dare.’ He moved forward, looking into Sherlock’s eyes. ‘You won’t leave, you can’t leave me again.’ 

Seeming relieved, Sherlock nodded, his shoulders relaxing ever-so-slightly. ‘Fine.’ 

It was John’s turn to smile as he put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, still not believing that this man was real. ‘You’re actually here, aren’t you?’ 

‘Yes, John.’ There it was. That horrible patronising tone, wrapped up in cynicism and sarcasm. How had John missed it. It couldn’t be helped anymore, John threw his arms around Sherlock’s middle and pulled him into a tight hug, inhaling all of him. He was actually back. It would take some getting used to, but he was back. 

And as Sherlock wrapped his own arms around John, burying his nose in John’s hair, John knew that with time they would be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> A bit of angsty Johnlock for you, I hope you've enjoyed it. As always, your opinions are appreciated. Thank you for reading!


End file.
